The mortician has the bodies separated.

Children.

Adults.

Male.

Female.

He prepares a body for examination when he hears a cry. He drops his tools in shock, certain his ears have gone bad, when he hears it again. He strides over to the table with the young girls and he brings out a crying 8-year-old girl. She is gasping for air and cries out for her sister, for her Mary. The surgeon smacks her head and she quiets. He picks her up in her dirty dress and walks out. He goes several streets with her in his arms till he comes to an orphanage.

He sets her down and knocks on the large oak doors. That done, he sends the little girl one last glance before walking away. The door creaks open to reveal a red-faced woman holding a wailing babe. She glances down at the girl,

"Oi Jane! We gots another one!"

Another woman, bigger and redder comes to the door, she looks down at the quivering girl before yanking her inside. She brings the small girl to an office where she pulls out a piece of parchment, she looks at the girl and barks,

"How old is ye?"

The girl remains silent, fearful of this woman.

"I said, how old is ye?"

She yells and the girl shrank back, then mumbled.

"Wot's that?"

"8 mum."

"Wot's yer name?"

"Penny, Penelope Faber."